Tag Archives: life

Friday Fictioneers – We Were Just Children

FFbenches

PHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll

 

Sitting behind me, as fate would have it, as you drag your finger across my back, I know it’s you.  The faintest touch of a dizzily dragging finger that makes the hairs stand up on the back of my neck like you knew it would.  But we were just children.

 

And you were still just a child when you passed to the other side; when you knocked on my door and asked to come back.  It was too late.  I felt a guilt it my heart I didn’t know was there, like you knew I would.  But we were just children.

 


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Chop Chop!

The date at 6.  The clock at 5.  Everyone waiting for me to arrive like festivities barred behind brittle little braces and I’m the Straw that breaks its back.  I want to be there.  I want more time with you all.  But painful is the prodding that produces this person to patiently mosey around from my private cove.  The lines on the clock face tick lines on my face, and all I hear is –

 

Chop Chop!

 

My private cove where my actions are my own and not the production of string pulls on my marionette.  My door like scissors that cut me loose into my own sanctuary.  I drop my masquerade in a jar by the door and may work on my dreams in peace.  And pieces they become for two eyes of my own for I share them with no one; not for my sake, I just wear a particular prescription.  My farsighted lenses I paint over with roses save me from the Grims that speak with no filter.  So I stay here with myself.  I lie in bed and let my aspirations float up into the ceiling fan – and pieces they become.

 

Chop Chop!

Love Letter

You’re the gravity,

That gives these words weight.

Without you, it’s just a blank slate.

 

You’re the word I can’t stop repeating,

Until it loses all meaning,

But I can’t stop from singing.

 

You’re the body I hold under the sheet,

Because when our brains turn off,

Our hearts still beat.

 

You’re the gravity,

That gives these words weight.

Without you, it’s just a blank slate.

 

You’re the one after the “To”,

Who I’m sending this love letter,

To try and make our love better.

 

Jaded Diamond

It’s been three years since they said it would be over in three months.

It’s been three years since I wasn’t warned to bear the brunt.

It’s been three years since I couldn’t munch-crunch on brunch-

Only ever wanting to confront the bunched up grunts with a punch,

And a punt in their scrunched up guts.

But I was too weak – too tamed to maim the brains I blame,

For my guts lacerated like a hollow candy-cane.

So all my aggression, depression, pressurized this compression,

That I prayed would turn my lump of coal into a diamond – that’s my confession.

Kept tryin’ to turn it into a positive,

But I’m positive – it sure was causative.

 

The result was no diamond.  I’m jaded.

My ‘care-free’ faded.  My Mr. Brightside shaded.

And to not be angry at the God who forgave me;

I hope He’ll save me from these drugs I keep taking.

‘Cuz I know that I’m destined for more than monthly injections,

For this lower intestine.

And you know I’m bestin’,

To alchemize this jade into perfection.

It’s predestined progression- not even a question of reaching succession.

I’m working to the top.

Until then- can’t stop.

Sunday Photo Fiction – Behind Closed Doors

stonecat

Walking down 3rd Street, passing across Washington, we phase through ethereal fog. We can taste the smog, the ‘city-water’ sitting water splashing under endless tires, me and my daughter. The aftertaste of old pennies and nickels permeates my palate. I can almost taste the tableau of top brass, Thomas Jefferson, under the steel skyscrapers. The contour of the skyline sharply engraves itself on the curvature of the night sky’s full-moon like the flavor of the etching of the executives on the change in the pocket of my mouth. The rigidity of the urban iron and the awful aroma of alloy is obnoxiously noxious, but despite my derision, I stay stone-faced in disdain.

Cars cruise past the far lane as I try to keep sane through all this pain. I look down at my daughter for some respite and she’s already looking back at me with a crooked smile in delight in the light of the city at night and I can’t help but wonder when we forget that everything will be alright. Her face scrunches in playful disgust as she sticks her tongue out: sensing the same sense I’m sensing. I just can’t help but wonder at what age do we hide our true feelings behind closed doors behind closed doors behind closed doors behind closed….


Read others here.

Friday Fictioneers – Rainy Nights

It’s been a while….

© Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
© Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

I tagged you first as the rain fell.  You chased me through the umbrella-d drones: scared of shorting their circuitry.  The rain fell on us.

I looked back at you when you stopped smiling to blow the wet hair off your face.  I didn’t notice wet socks in new shoes while I stopped you in your tracks with a puddle splash.  We circled around lampposts and street signs, cutting through drizzled grass back to the car.  I jumped in to lock the door from you, but you were too close behind.  You tagged me in the passenger seat the night the rain washed away our age.


Love Letters from a Teenage Manic Depressive

Sometimes I stare.  But I just can’t help myself from looking at the back of that pretty head.  And those slender arms that come to a gentle rest in front of her, dainty fingers drumming away at an invisible tune of a popular song I’ve never heard of.  She’s perfect.  Her brown hair, her turquoise shirt with all the jewelry, and jeans.  I don’t know anything about her, but she’s perfect.

It’s just this feeling I’ve got.  An instinctual calling of fate that tells me “this one”.  I can tell because my hands get sweaty.  I can tell because when she looks towards me, I get hyper-aware.  I start to feel my taste buds slide against the inside of my mouth and I can taste my early-morning saliva and lead-ridden drinking fountain water.  I have to remind myself to blink every 15 seconds or so.  I realize my foot has been tapping, and when I stop it, that potential energy builds up my anxiety.  And all this happens with her quickly turning her head to the side to adjust her hair over her shoulder.  When I pass her in the hallway, I realize the patter and rhythm to my walking until I start walking with a hobble.  My lips feel uncomfortable just sitting there and I move them around until they’re fixed into some sly smile.  But I always make sure not to show teeth- they’re not white enough.   Maybe there’s something in them.

And as much as I hear “this one” ringing through my head on repeat for hours and hours, I can’t make myself do anything.  If she was interested, I’d know, right?  But why would she?  I can smell my 3-day unwashed jeans when I sit down.  Sometimes when she sits down, I get the faint whiff of name brand dryer sheets and mall-grade perfume.  She’s perfect.  But my shirt has a hole in the collar and I could probably use a haircut.  Maybe after some new clothes and grooming I can maybe say ‘hi’.

I like to wonder what would happen if I just collapsed in the middle of everything.  Who would rush over?  Who would run away?  Who would just watch?  Who would care?  I think about this scenario constantly in many different places, with many different people, but I can’t stop myself from always picturing her to run over first and be upset.  Really, really upset.  Her eyes filled with tears, holding my lifeless body and sobbing.  It’s perfect.